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- The four of them stay in Anuket until Brenner can travel. Learned Edmund can't help much but he finds a manuscript detailing the recovery process of exorcism survivors, which helps a great deal.
- Caliban wants Brenner to see the priestess he met, to learn about the goddess that saved his life, but Brenner refuses. They're in hiding, after all (and he just really doesn't have the capacity to think about the goddess yet; he's still trying to come to terms with being alive and demon-free, he doesn't want to think about the new being that has decided to interfere in his life).
- They leave, go back to the Dowager's City. They get their pardons and quite a lot of money, along with a meaningful look from the Captain that says he'd really like to never see them again.
- They go to Archenhold.
- Slate and Caliban are very… careful around Brenner. They're careful not to leave him alone for too long, careful not to allow him anything sharp in case he hurts himself, careful to tell him that he's getting better.
- Brenner is used to being alone, and he likes it. He does enjoy Slate’s company, and he's grown to tolerate Caliban, but he can't stand the constant hovering.
- He understands why they do, of course. He couldn't read the manuscript, but he heard Slate and Caliban discussing it enough times. He knows that his hands and legs aren't fully under his control, and sometimes when he tries to speak, the words aren't there.
- So he lets them hover until he's able to do most things on his own, and then he leaves.
- When they find that Brenner is gone, Slate is sad but unsurprised, Caliban is annoyed and worried. They go on with their lives.
- Brenner does too. He figures out his new limits and works around them. Apparently he made an incredibly fast recovery, but it doesn't feel like it.
- He's always been good at being patient. Patience is necessary in his line of work. Watching a target's house to observe every person that goes in and out for three days, that requires patience and an unwavering determination that doesn't wear off after a few hours.
- He's not good at being patient with other people, though, and it turns out he's terrible at being patient with himself when he drops things, or trips over his own feet (Caliban or Slate no longer right there to catch him), or he can't remember something that happened an hour ago, or how to say a word. He doesn't know how to be patient with himself, but he has to be.
- He needs the alone time to come to terms with the fact that he was willing to sacrifice himself to keep Slate (and Caliban, dammit) safe. The fact that he died. And the fact that Someone saved him.
- He can feel a presence somewhere inside him. It feels different than the demon, but it's in the same place, a place he'd never been aware of until the demon took up residence. His soul, he supposes (hah. Who knew he had one?). It's not doing anything so he tries to ignore it.
- Then something happens, maybe he's practicing moving over the rooftops at night or something, and he feels a nudge from that place inside. He follows it because why not, and it steers him to a certain place, an empty, lonely place where something bad is happening, and urges him to step in.
- He doesn't want to, at first, and he manages to push back a little against the feeling, but then for some reason he decides to intervene. He's a little worried about his body not working right, but the presence in his chest floods outward and his hands are steady, his sight clear, his movements sure as he kills whoever was doing the bad thing.
- When he's done the presence recedes, and he hears a whisper, a message from Her. I never knew having a paladin would be so useful. Brenner groans, because he's never going to live this down.
- Brenner spends a couple more months on his own, doing his thing. He still has issues with dexterity sometimes, but he pushes through them. The thing with the goddess happens twice more, and it's less disturbing each time.
- Thoughts of Slate and Caliban keep edging into his mind. He wants to- Well, he wants to do a lot of things, and most of them include getting the three of them into one bed.
- He isn't lonely. Loneliness is something he decided, long ago, was detrimental to his career. But he does wonder what they're doing, how their life is going without him.
- Eventually, he goes to find out.
Slate saw him first, lounging in the chair and smoking a cigarette. She stopped in the doorway to the apartment. Behind her Caliban made a concerned sound.
Brenner looked up. “Hello, darlin’.”
He had wondered how this would go. He hadn't actually expected Slate to fling herself into his arms like he was a long-lost lover instead of an ex who was sometimes a friend, but he wasn't complaining.
Caliban harrumphed from the doorway. Slate, who had her face tucked into Brenner's neck, ignored him.
“I was gonna ask if you missed me, but I think you've answered that, darlin’.” Brenner put his arms around her, enjoying the embrace. When she started to pull back, he held her tight for a moment longer, then let go.
Slate rolled her eyes as she stepped back, but she was smiling. “Where've you been?”
“Oh, around. You know how it is.” He grinned at her, then glanced up. “Tired of the paladin yet?”
Caliban harrumphed again, from directly behind Slate. He was staring intently at Brenner.
“What? Forget how good-looking I am?” Brenner raised an eyebrow.
Slate flopped down in her chair, snickering, as Caliban's ears turned pink. He didn't rise to it, however, simply stared for another long minute. Then he took a swift step forward and went to a knee in front of Brenner, catching his chin in one hand and looking deep into his eyes.
Brenner was surprised, and wary. The paladin wasn't moving, wasn't doing anything, he was just… looking, from a distance of six inches. The hell is he doing? He could feel the strength in the fingers on his jaw, and the paladin’s breath was brushing over his mouth. He could see a couple of tiny scars on Caliban’s face that he’d never been close enough to notice before, too.
Brenner glanced over at Slate, whose eyebrows were so high that they almost disappeared into her hairline. She looked confused, and shocked, and a little turned on. Well, isn’t that interesting…
When he returned his eyes to Caliban, the paladin was breathing in deeply through his nose, still gazing intently at him. Was he… sniffing for something?
Brenner had had enough. His non-cigarette hand moved, and one of his knives was at Caliban's throat, not touching the skin (he still couldn't trust his hands to stay steady, and Slate would never forgive him if he slit the man's throat by accident). “I’d suggest taking a step back,” he said conversationally. “Unless you want to stay on your knees, which I'm not opposed to, but you might want to discuss that with our Slate first.”
Caliban flushed darker and abruptly stood, backing several steps away. “I apologize,” he muttered, looking at the floor. Brenner wasn't sure which of them he was talking to.
Slate sat up suddenly. “Ohh. You were checking him for a demon!”
“What?”
Caliban nodded, sitting down in his own chair.
Brenner glared at him. “You already exorcised six of the damn things! Do you really think I'd let another in? I may be open-minded, but I'm not that eager to have our Slate choke me again.”
-a narrow walkway shuddering beneath his knees, an ache in his head that didn't compare to the pain in his neck, his throat, Slate's fingers around his throat, pressure, pain, the sound of chanting-
Slate made a small sound, and Caliban winced. “I know. Believe me, I know. But I had to check. I sensed something different, and I had to be sure.”
Slate furrowed her brow, frowning. “What?”
Brenner tensed, suddenly having a suspicion of what was going on.
“He's… a paladin,” Caliban said. He sounded bewildered. “A paladin of Inzaa.”
There was a charged moment of silence as the weight of the words settled in the room.
Then Slate burst out laughing.
Brenner sighed and put his face in his hands. He had expected this, at least.
Slate slid out of her chair and onto the rug, giggling. She managed to calm down enough to gasp, “Brenner… a paladin!” Then she was laughing again. At some point her infinite allergies must have kicked in because she started sneezing. Caliban wordlessly produced a handkerchief from somewhere and dropped it on her chest.
“I suppose I shall have to call you brother now,” Caliban said.
“Oh gods, anything but that.” Brenner slumped back in his chair and took a drag on his cigarette, then kicked Slate in the side. “A little sympathy wouldn't go amiss, darlin’.”
“Sorry,” she wheezed. She sat back up, leaning against Caliban's leg. “Sorry. I just- who'd have ever expected this? Two criminals, all mixed up with gods?” She gestured vaguely at the three of them, and then the ceiling.
“It’s all his fault,” Brenner grumbled. Then an idea occurred to him. “Hey, you know about this stuff. How do I stop being a… a whatever I am?”
Caliban looked at him seriously. “Inzaa saved you from death. She chose you to be Her blade in the mortal world. You don’t 'stop being' a paladin.” He paused. “If what She is asking you to do is truly repulsive to you, there are ways to renounce one’s devotion, but they are dangerous. Your soul is in a… delicate condition.”
Brenner snorted, blowing out smoke. “Delicate. Because I'm a cold-hearted killer?”
“You are that. But no, I mean that you recently had six demons wrapped around your soul, and the removal of one demon does enough damage by itself, but six… Without the healing granted by Inzaa's grace, I do not know if you could survive.”
Brenner nodded slowly, reluctantly. He couldn't remember much of the exorcism clearly, but he remembered the tearing sensation as each demon ripped itself away from him. “Alright. So I'm gonna have to get used to being… What'd you call it? The blade of a goddess?” His hand spasmed and he nearly dropped the cigarette. With an irritated snarl he tossed it into the fire. He glared his hand, then at Slate and Caliban, daring them to comment.
Caliban didn't. “A somewhat fanciful term, but you will find that it is accurate. We are blades in the hands of powers higher than ourselves, and we must trust to Their judgement on how They choose to use us.”
Brenner rubbed his forehead. “Slate, you wouldn't happen to have anything to drink, would you?” He gave Caliban a sideways look and said sarcastically, “Unless alcohol is forbidden for the holy?”
“You wouldn't be holy if you spent the rest of your life in a monastery,” Slate said as she got up. “Want some, Caliban?” At his nod, she disappeared into the small kitchen.
“No,” Caliban said, returning his attention to Brenner. “I have done some research on Inzaa, and though I believe you are Her first paladin, She does not require any sacrifices of Her priests.” He hesitated. “May I ask, what did She have you do?”
“How do you know I've done anything?”
“Because you weren't surprised when I said you were a paladin. Also, the last time I saw you, there was only a very faint trace of Her around you. Now it's much stronger, I felt it as soon as I walked through the door.” He glanced up as Slate came back in, trying to carry three glasses and a bottle.
Brenner grinned at her. “Thanks, darlin'.”
“Thank me by helping with this,” Slate muttered, almost dropping a glass.
Caliban was already up, striding over to take the glasses. Brenner sat and watched. Watched the casual way Caliban pressed a kiss to Slate's hair as she gave him a one-armed hug in thanks. Watched the easy way they moved together, the casual intimacy of lovers. Jealousy twisted through him, making his mouth twist and his eyes narrow. Brenner and Slate had moved like that, once. He wondered if they still did.
The wine was good, better than the stuff Brenner usually had. He took a long drink, lifting the glass to his mouth carefully, with both hands (a strategy he had learned after the exorcism, when his hands had trembled almost constantly. They were fine now, other than the occasional spasm, but it didn't hurt to make sure).
Caliban was looking at him with patient curiosity. Brenner knew that if he didn't say anything, Caliban wouldn't press. But Slate was looking at him too, now, and he found that he didn't mind telling them.
“The first time was a coupla months ago. I felt this kinda urge to go to the rooftop of the tenement housing on Tackle Street, you know, the one with the green paint. When I got there…” Brenner shrugged, taking another drink. “I don't remember it so clearly. There were a coupla men rigging some kind of device to a pipe on the roof.”
Slate looked at him, fascinated. “What was it? What happened?”
“The device? No idea, but it reminded me of all the exploding things we saw in Anuket City. I killed them and threw it in the river.” Brenner ran a hand through his hair. “It was… strange. It was still me doing the fighting, but there was this thing, this presence, that… made everything clearer? My hands didn't shake at all,” he said quieter.
Caliban was nodding. “The grace of a goddess. There is nothing quite like it.”
Brenner opened his mouth, paused, then laughed. “I was gonna say some of the hard drugs come close, but nah, you're right.” He refilled his glass and turned to Slate. “So how's your side of the work been, darlin’? Found your niche with the crowd here yet?”
“Oh, yes. I have to admit, the Grey Church was more straightforward, but at least here no one wants me dead. The guilds make things a bit tricky- they do a much better job of policing their quarters than any city guard force I've met, but there are ways around them.”
Brenner nodded. “There always are.”
Slate launched into a story about some banker who'd needed a rival to go out of business, a fairly straightforward job which somehow ended up involving a goat, a priest of the Hanged Mother, and several bottles of acid.
When she finished, she prodded Caliban. “He’s been getting some work, too. Turns out having a demon possess your chickens can make it hard to sell the eggs, or anything else, and if you call out the official paladins, it’s a big commotion and everyone in the village knows within the hour. Some farmers will pay for a more… discreet kind of paladin.”
Brenner snickered. He couldn’t imagine any paladin being discreet, especially Caliban.
“I do not require payment,” Caliban said, sounding aggrieved. “I tell them that it is both my calling and my duty to help them, but they always insist, and after a point protesting would only be offensive.”
Brenner and Slate shared a look. Who would turn down money? Especially money they actually earned? Apparently, the paladin. Brenner wasn't really surprised.
“Done any humans?” Brenner asked casually, taking another drink of his wine.
Caliban caught the edge in his voice and winced. “No.” His voice was quiet as he stared at the fire. “Those should only be done by at least two servants of the Dreaming God working together, in full knowledge of the temple, not by a- a freelance paladin. While it was necessary and ultimately successful in your case, it was very dangerous. For all of us. And I will not risk that again.”
Brenner decided he would need a lot more wine to think about that, so he finished his glass and reached for the bottle. His hands trembled a little, making the glass clunk, but he didn't spill any, so he tried to ignore his irritation. Successful. Right.
“Oh!” Slate snapped her fingers. “We got a letter from Learned Edmund a couple weeks ago.” She shrugged. “Well, I say we. It was addressed and written to Caliban, but there was a bit in code for me. Apparently, the senior priests are proud of him for accomplishing his mission, but are seriously concerned about his genitals and bowels, not to mention his mental state, after being in the company of a woman for so long. He's finding it frustrating, not being believed when he says that I found Brother Amandai's notebook, but otherwise, he's doing well.” She sneezed, then looked around for her handkerchief.
“He said something about wanting to mount an expedition to search for the wonder engine we saw,” Caliban added, handing her a new handkerchief. “The other dedicates are very excited about it.”
“He wants to go back into the Vagrant Hills?” Brenner said, incredulous. “After those plants threw rocks at us? Not to mention the rune.” His shudder was more genuine than he would ever admit.
-the demon forcing its way into his mind, then his soul… whispers, orders, insistent, unceasing, never a moment's peace, no privacy in his own mind, it saw everything, it knew everything, it was driving him mad and it enjoyed it, taunting him because he would never be free-
Slate shrugged. “Well, you know what he's like. But I think he's mostly focusing on the cure for the blight. It sounds like he’s making good progress.” She yawned and stretched, linking her hands and reaching her arms over her head.
Brenner nodded, his eyes lingering appreciatively on her chest. Then he glanced over and saw Caliban's gaze on him: watchful, warning. He raised an eyebrow at the paladin and leered a little at him too, just because.
Caliban cleared his throat. “While it is good to see you, are you- Is this simply a visit or…?”
“Asking me to stay the night?” Brenner drawled.
Slate rolled her eyes. “Asking if you're going to leave again. I know you're doing better, Brenner, and you're perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, but still. Whether you're going to keep dropping by for a chat, or disappear forever, or, hell, even move back in, I'd like to know so I don't worry.” She refilled her glass, and then Caliban's, not looking at him.
“Aw, sweetheart.” Brenner leaned forward and rested a hand on her leg. “I could never leave you forever. We’re a pair, aren’t we? We've even got matching tattoos!”
Slate eyed his hand, which was a little too high on her leg to be only a friendly gesture. “My mother always said that matching tattoos pretty much guarantees that it'll end fast.”
Brenner laughed, a bitter feeling in his throat turning it harsh. “Well, you two seem to have disproved that.”
There was a minute of silence while they all contemplated their wine.
Slate scratched at the tattooed creature on her arm. It had become a habit, Brenner had noticed, even after the tattoo stopped moving. “Brenner, how'd you end up with one of these anyway? You never said how they got you.”
Brenner took another drink of wine. “I was tryin’ to rescue you, of course.” He shrugged and gestured vaguely with the glass. “Had a whole plan, found out where they were keeping you, and then I go through a window and hell if I don't run into three guards on their lunch break.”
Slate laughed, surprised, then smiled at him. “Thanks, Brenner. I mean, it wouldn't have worked anyway, since I'd already got the tattoo, but… thanks. I appreciate that.”
Brenner grinned. “Anythin’ for you, darlin’. You know that.”
He liked her smiles. Most of the people he dealt with didn't smile, or if they did, it was a sharp, weaponized thing, never genuine. Slate was perfectly capable of controlling her expression when she wanted to, but when she felt comfortable, her smiles lit up her entire face. This one was full of affection, a little gratitude, as well as some wry humor at the situation.
“And here I thought you'd been caught standing in a room full of corpses or something,” Caliban muttered.
“Nah, that's more your thing, isn't it?” Brenner saw the minute flinch that Caliban made and smiled in satisfaction. He felt the tiniest flicker of something like regret - he knew, now, what it felt like for a demon to use his body, and he knew he probably should feel more compassion or something - but it was just too damn fun to antagonize Caliban.
“Shut up, Brenner,” Slate sighed, her smile turning to a glare. That was fine. Brenner liked Slate when she was angry, too.
“Ngha gha kalaalik,” Caliban muttered, then winced. “Sorry.”
Slate laughed. “I think the demon agrees with me!”
Brenner downed the rest of his wine and reached for the bottle again. Hearing Caliban’s dead demon speak in tongues was different from the gibbering of a live demon, but not so different that it didn't make him twitch a little.
-rising, oh gods he was floating, levitating, his mouth opening and how was this sound coming from him, it couldn't be no human could make this sound, his throat was raw and his tongue bled because no human should make this sound-
He held the wine up, squinting at the amount of liquid left, then shrugged and upended the bottle over his glass. It would wash the taste of blood from his mouth.
“You didn't answer my question,” Slate said after a minute. “About this.” She waved around at the three of them. “Are you just back for a visit, then? How long are you going to stay?”
“Hoping for something, darlin'?” Brenner drawled, raising an eyebrow suggestively. He leaned forward to put the empty wine bottle back on the table.
“I just want to know if you're staying the night because-”
Crash!
The glass bottle smashed on the stone hearth. Brenner stared at his hand, which had spasmed, the neck of the bottle slipping loose from his twitching fingers. He spat a filthy curse, then followed it with a string of increasingly inventive phrases.
“Well, that's a yes.” Slate stood up and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It's alright, Brenner.” She glanced meaningfully at Caliban, then moved away, saying over her shoulder, “I’ll get the broom.”
Brenner glared at his hands.
“She's right,” Caliban said quietly, in what Brenner thought of as the too-trustworthy-to-be-trusted-voice. “This is not something to be ashamed of. It is entirely natural.”
“I'm not ashamed,” Brenner snarled, switching the glare to the paladin. “I'm really fucking pissed. It's been weeks since I broke something.” On accident, of course; he had broken a man's fingers just the other day.
“That is also natural,” Caliban said, voice still infuriatingly calm and kind. “Frustration is common among those recovering from exorcisms.”
“Yeah? Did you swear whenever you dropped a rosary?” Brenner rolled his eyes.
“No. I believed it to be a mere fraction of the punishment I deserved for what I had done.” A hint of wry humor entered the paladin’s voice, returning it to normal. “Also, I didn't have a rosary. Presumably my guards thought I might attempt to use one as a garrote.”
“Brenner did that once,” Slate announced, reappearing with a broom and dustpan. She knelt to sweep up the broken glass. “Right?”
“Oh, yeah. It didn't work very well; the beads lessened the effect, and the string wasn't really strong enough.” Brenner chuckled at the appalled look on Caliban's face. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if about to impart a great secret. “You can get these special rosaries, though, with a wire string and beads you can move aside; those work much better, so I’m told. Quite popular with some of my colleagues.”
Caliban muttered something that sounded like a prayer. Brenner, feeling much more cheerful, took a long drink of his wine.
Slate stood up and took the pan of broken glass into another room, then came back and flopped into her chair, slumping sideways so her back was against one armrest. After a minute she said, “All right, I’ve got to get up too damn early to see some people who think that dawn is an exciting time for clandestine meetings.”
Brenner snickered. He of all people knew that covert meetings were best held either during the day, when no one noticed you in the crowds, or in the middle of the night, when anyone else around was equally keen on not being noticed. Dawn was an especially foolish time, because the only people in the streets at that hour were bakers and other people whose jobs required that they get up early. Anyone loitering around was instantly suspicious.
Slate saw his look and groaned. “Yes, I know, it’s stupid. But my client was very insistent, and hey, I’m getting paid.” She finished her wine and slid out of the chair. “Anyway, I’m going to turn in. Try not to antagonize each other too much, will you?”
“Oh, we’ll play nice,” Brenner drawled, holding Caliban’s stare.
“Good.” Slate rested her hand on his shoulder, then gave him a brief hug. “I’m glad you’re back, Brenner, even if it’s only for a short time.”
Brenner breathed in her familiar smell: ink, parchment, and the oils she put in her hair. The last was very faint; he knew she used oils that had barely any scent on purpose, part of her strategy of being invisible. It had never worked on him. Nor, he thought, did it work on Caliban. “So am I, darlin’.”
Slate moved over to Caliban and leaned down to kiss him. Brenner watched, jealousy and lust mixing in his stomach. He took another sip of wine, swirling the dark liquid around his glass, watching the way the paladin’s hands cupped her face, watching the way Slate melted a little at his touch.
Slate whispered something to Caliban, then straightened up and turned toward the door to her bedroom. Pausing in the doorway, she looked at Brenner, opened her mouth, stopped. After a moment she said, “I’ll see you in the morning?”
Brenner hadn’t intended to stay the night, unless it was in their bed. But his small rented room seemed very far away and cold, now, as he sat beside the fire and glanced back and forth between Caliban and Slate. Both of them were watching him, Slate with hope, and Caliban with something that was harder to read but didn’t appear to be actual dislike.
He nodded.
Slate smiled at him, then disappeared into the bedroom.
The assassin and the paladin sat by the fire, drinking their wine in silence. It was a comfortable, if not really friendly, silence, the silence of two people who didn't like each other all that much but had gotten used to having the other around.
Brenner found himself watching the firelight on Caliban’s face, flickering over his cheekbones and the side of his neck. He thought of earlier, when the paladin’s face had been so close, his hand warm and strong on Brenner’s jaw.
After a few minutes, Caliban broke the silence. “I have, you know.”
“You have what?” Brenner raised an eyebrow, his attention returning to the present.
“Discussed it with Slate. You. Us. The three of us.” His voice was quiet, rumbling in his chest as he spoke.
Brenner leaned back in his chair, narrowing his eyes. “And?”
Caliban met his gaze. “She's not ready. I won't make assumptions about her reasons, but she isn't ready to reenter that relationship yet.” He cleared his throat. “However. She isn't… She's not opposed to the idea of the two of us, ah…”
“Fucking?” Brenner asked, his voice low.
Caliban nodded, his eyes still locked on Brenner’s face.
Brenner dragged his eyes over Caliban's body. He'd been attracted to the paladin in a general, impersonal way since they'd met. On their journey to Anuket City, he'd thought about offering, but had decided that he would rather focus his attention on Slate. Caliban had apparently decided the same thing.
And that was the point, right there. They both loved Slate, in their own ways. When she was in the room, they focused on her. She was the central point that they circled.
And, in circling, sometimes they collided. In the past, it had been with blades drawn and teeth bared, sharp words and anger and violence.
Now, though…
Brenner stood, taking another sip of wine before setting his glass down on the table. “Well then…” he drawled, stalking closer. No stumbling, no shaking. A hunter, a predator, closing in on its prey, every sense focused and attentive.
The paladin swallowed hard, his eyes going darker as Brenner leaned down. “We'd best try not to wake Slate, yeah?” he whispered, smirking.
“Of course,” Caliban said, and leaned closer. Then he paused. “Brenner?”
“What?”
“Before we do anything, I would appreciate it if you put all your knives on the table.”
Brenner chuckled, low and dangerous. “You don't think I could kill you with my bare hands?”
Caliban grinned. His eyes were dark. “I don't intend to give you the chance.”
It was fast, and not very good, but there was potential there. Brenner thought that if they had time to learn each other's bodies, time to explore and experiment and the space to do it without worrying about waking Slate…. Hell, maybe she'd even watch next time.
Brenner stood in the guest bedroom, listening to the muffled sounds of Caliban getting into bed on the other side of the wall. Slate mumbled something sleepy, then sneezed. Brenner smirked as he imagined Caliban pulling a handkerchief out of some pocket for her.
When there was quiet from the other room, Brenner padded to the window, raised the sill, and climbed out. A handy drainpipe provided an easy route to the roof, and from there, it was only a quick stroll to a higher roof with a cluster of chimneys. He paused to listen carefully, then slipped between them, into a secluded nook.
Hidden from any mortal eyes, he sat and looked up at the dark sky. The wind was thin and cold, whistling through the chimneys. High on the rooftops, isolated and alone and breathing free: this was where Brenner felt at home. He always had; he supposed that he understood why the goddess had chosen him.
He was thinking about the kiss Caliban had given him. Oh, they had kissed during sex, harsh, hungry things, but after they were done and had dressed again, Brenner had started to turn away toward the guest room, and Caliban stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. When Brenner looked at him, an eyebrow raised, Caliban had kissed him. Soft and sweet and gentle. Brenner tried to deepen it, tried to control it, but the paladin didn't let him.
When Caliban pulled back Brenner had asked, “What was that for?” and Caliban replied, “For not stabbing me.” Brenner had chuckled and told him that there was always next time, and something like surprise had flickered in the paladin’s eyes. He hadn't said anything, though, only smiled.
Brenner stared into the darkness. The vague, uncertain thing that was probably his soul felt soothed, like Inzaa's grace was being applied a little more heavily than usual. Did She like how close he'd come to another paladin? Was divinity multiplied by proximity or something?
He thought about Slate's question earlier, the one he had never truly answered. How long are you going to stay? He wasn't sure. When he'd made his way into their rooms, he hadn't been planning on more than a quick visit. He liked being alone; it felt natural to him. That didn't mean that he didn't enjoy the company of others, though. Especially Slate. And maybe Caliban.
He would stay for a while, he decided. A few days, perhaps. He knew in a week or so, he would feel the need to be on his own again, but Slate was used to him coming and going.
He breathed in the cool air, enjoying the calm of the night. Then he pushed himself to stand and left the nest of chimneys, returning to Slate's apartment. He would be there in the morning, like he'd said.
Even a paladin of the goddess of loneliness didn't have to be alone all the time.